


Number Line

by Senforza



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, aka a hopefully soon-to-exist youtube dr series?, b) my shame, because a) spoilers, c) chinese wifi means no google docs so, for 'Danganronpa: The Monochromatic Battle', i'm out of options, uh please don't read this if you aren't part of the project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senforza/pseuds/Senforza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Triskaidekaphobia: the fear of the number thirteen. Thirteen is an odd number, a prime number, an unlucky number. The first number in the English language with two syllables; the first prime that is still prime reversed…they say there were thirteen people at the table the night before Jesus Christ died; they say the Mayan calendar ended on the thirteenth; they say Loki was the thirteenth guest to his own victim’s funeral. They say that the first person to rise from a table of thirteen will be the first to die.</p>
<p>It takes Haruka Himura thirteen steps to lose her faith in humanity.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hayley of hope and Deschair](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hayley+of+hope+and+Deschair).



> fuck y'all especially hayley and ross
> 
> this is 8718 words aka longer than anything y'all have done thus far so i deserve comments for this god damn it
> 
> i'm looking at you hayley finish your fucking bot3 fic or i will find you and skin you
> 
> my first an was a lot longer but then china wifi died and killed all my editing thus far so i just give no more shits i am not doing this again take it t a k e i t 
> 
> f u c k y o u a l l

Triskaidekaphobia: the fear of the number thirteen. Thirteen is an odd number, a prime number, an unlucky number. The first number in the English language with two syllables; the first prime that is still prime reversed…they say there were thirteen people at the table the night before Jesus Christ died; they say the Mayan calendar ended on the thirteenth; they say Loki was the thirteenth guest to his own victim’s funeral. They say that the first person to rise from a table of thirteen will be the first to die.

It takes Haruka Himura thirteen steps to lose her faith in humanity.

* * *

  _ **i. one**_

She is not impressionable or naïve, even before death hardens her. At seven years of age, she is still living, breathing flesh; she understands the reality of finality of death as her parents describe it to her, and is not about to insist that ‘he’s not dead.’

Instead, she curls her fingers into the Earth. She feels the prickle of grass against her palms, of soft dirt sinking beneath her nails as her eyes follow the dog her parents are burying.

Haruka remembers first sinking her fingers into Hachiko’s fur; like the Earth under sunlight, it was warm and molded to her touch easily. She remembers wondering at the boundless energy bottled up in the little body, watching him jump from one end of the yard to another, growing with him in the same leaps and bounds. She had watched that volatile energy—the spark of life, if one were to go so far—fade from her lifelong companion as Hachiko became listless. She remembers sinking her fingers into the warm strands of fur and feeling the Earth under her fingers stop spinning, the heart under her hands stop beating.

In death, that energy Hachiko lost in later life is released in the form of restlessness, bottled mania; Haruka can barely keep up as he darts from place to place, as if there will never be enough time to explore their thirty by thirty backyard. He treads familiar tracks back and forth, darts repeatedly to Haruka and nuzzles her hands, buries his nose into the mound of dirt Haruka’s parents are gathering over his body. He is translucent in the sun, fur shimmering, an opaque silver instead of familiar gold; it’s as if a breeze could blow past and he would disperse completely, a vapor in the wind.

Her mother finally sits back on her knees, sighing and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand; her father pats the packed dirt fondly one final time before removing his gardening gloves. Haruka giggles to herself as Hachiko obediently trots over, sitting up on his haunches; she uncurls her fingers from the Earth and pats the ground next to her in a similar fashion, causing Hachiko to move over to her instead. She makes no move to touch him; her mere presence is enough, and he obediently curls by her side.

“Let’s go, Haruka.” Her mother’s voice is soft with misplaced sympathy as she moves to take her hand; Haruka obediently twines their fingers together as her father sighs and places a hand on her shoulder. Together, they steer her toward the house; Hachiko trots in front of them, pacing in a circle before waiting as usual by the closed door.

“You’re being really strong, sweetie.” Her father’s voice is a comfortable rumble, a familiar sound that warms Haruka like sunshine from the inside out. “We know how hard this must be for you—you practically grew up with him.”

Hachiko’s tongue is sticking out of his mouth. His paw is tapping; he is impatient, restless to go somewhere that Haruka is not ready to let him leave her for. It was like this with grandma before Hachiko; with grandpa before grandma—so on and so forth, as far as she can remember.

“…I’m fine, Daddy.” She lets go of her parent’s hands, darting forward and pushing at the door; it gives way, and she opens it for Hachiko as her obedient companion faithfully steps inside. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you…”

**_ii. two_ **

She hears the whispering around her throughout the entire day. It follows her, a constant hiss, a malicious breeze that weighs down the atmosphere of their brightly plastered fifth grade classroom.

_What is wrong with her…? What is_ wrong _with her…? What is wrong with_ her _…?_

‘Her’ sits alone near the front of the room, far away from her assigned seat. ‘Her’ is not called on, even during attendance. ‘Her’ keeps her eyes fixed on the crumbling corner of her desk, and the teacher stares at her with pity instead of frustration at her inattention. ‘Her’ eats alone at recess, watched by the recess aide, glazed eyes fixed forlornly out the window at the brightly plastered springtime sky.

Haruka watches ‘her’ closely throughout the entire day.

She watches as ‘her’ narrowly avoids running into a desk on her way out of the classroom when the bell rings; she watches ‘her’ draw her favorite candy from the teacher’s bucket behind her desk; she watches ‘her’ stand from her chair to sharpen her pencil and overlook the fact that her chair pushes itself in.

More importantly, she watches the translucent boy trailing behind her do all these things; she watches him nudge the desk away, shift the sweets under her fingertips, pull out her chair as she sits back down, and watch her with sad eyes as she keeps her dead eyes trained on her desk.

The next day, Haruka goes to school prepared. The clip from last Friday’s newspaper is so crumpled it is practically illegible. Her fingers beat nervously against the crumpled words as she taps ‘her’ on the shoulder.

“Ayame Sazuka, right?” She opens the hand with the newspaper clipping, thrusting it forward. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I just wanted to tell you that your big brother must have loved you very much.”

**_iii. three_ **

“The website says he’s an expert on these things, but we honestly wouldn’t believe in it ourselves if it weren’t for you.” Her mother’s eyes shine as she straightens out Haruka’s dress. “So if you think he’s lying, tell us and we’ll leave.”

“We don’t need to act on this if you don’t want us to, but you’ve got a gift.” Haruka’s father ruffles her hair with one hand and nervously undoes her mother’s straightening with the other. “We know it’ll take you somewhere great, whether you decide to join the Church or not.”

“…Aren’t you two going in with me?” Haruka is ten, and ten is not old enough to face such a formal meeting alone. It is, however, old enough to stop holding her mother’s hand. “You said you would, right?”

“Well, yes…but we’re pretty clueless about this stuff, kiddo. We’re probably more nervous than you are.” As if to prove his point, Haruka’s father pushes his glasses up his nose. “Just talk to him, okay? And remember—tug on my sleeve if you want to leave. Daddy’ll get you out right away.”

 Haruka laughs. It rings down empty halls, locked doors, in her ears as she enters the all too intimidating office.

The Pastor stands to greet them, bending to Haruka’s level and holding out his hand. Normally, such an action would feel condescending, but with this man it is different. He has a look about him, evokes a gut feeling—that he is lowering himself to Haruka’s level, instead of implying that she is not yet on his. She takes his hand, shaking it as firmly as she can and staring him down. His eyes are wide, as dark and just as vague as the universe.

“Hello, Haruka. I’ve been waiting to meet you for a while now.” He stands up, moving back behind his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

Haruka does as asked, flanked by her parents on either side. She takes a look around the table, gauging the many strange artifacts and devices; her fingers drum on the desk as she itches to touch.

The Pastor’s eyes follow her. His spindly fingers move cautiously, as if inching toward unsuspecting prey; he lifts something simple, a chipped ceramic mug. It’s a garish color, lopsided; Haruka thinks to herself that she could do better if she tried.

“Your parents told me about your dog.” He sets the mug in front of her. “They also told me about your best friend—Ayame, was it?—and how you met.” His eyes are bright, curiously so—like Hachiko’s chaotic drive, the destructive force of life.

“I’d like to know a bit more about the extent of your powers. Could you please try and tell me what is special about this cup?”

 Haruka does not take her gaze away from the Pastor’s. There is something hypnotic about that force; some wild, unchecked passion that Haruka does not understand. There is something desperately hopeful.

She closes her eyes, letting her mind wander…and then, instinctively, Haruka’s fingers find her mother’s hand as her eyes fly open again.

“Why hasn’t your mother’s ghost left you yet?”

**_iv. four_ **

Haruka’s dress is white, almost blindingly so; her skin, having been scrubbed raw, is equally pale. Her arms still sting from the force of the sponge; her body seems almost weightless, free, unbound to the physical Earth. She feels radiant, ethereal…dare she even say, angelic?

An angel is not a spirit, though. It is not a spirit medium. She thinks dimly through the fog of incense clouding her brain that perhaps something darker would have worked; a pale grey, an off white, something to taint the pristine perfection. Death is not so pretty, after all. The color of a spirit—the color of the sidewalk pavement through a pool of rainwater, the color of the bone-dry tree in her front yard, the color of the sky on the day Hachiko finally left her—is silver, something more blemished but nevertheless more valuable. Death is not quite as freeing, it seems, as the Pastor would like her to believe.

The Pastor is speaking, but his words are no match for her weightlessness; they flow under her, a rushing current that carries no meaning. Her eyes instead stare down at the modest crowd gathered to watch her ascendency; worshippers she does not recognize, other mediums she cannot name, a mother and a father and a friend. Ayame’s hands are folded in what Haruka thinks might be a prayer; her dress is silver, much more fitting than Haruka’s. Like this, Ayame reminds her of a spirit; she belongs here, watching over Haruka, staying at her side.

Unfamiliar hands part her hair; her eyes shift over briefly as the Pastor opens an ornate chest at the front of the stage. Something silver is removed, passed from hand to hand—a spiraling hairpiece, just the perfect color. She begins to regain herself as the same acolyte affixes to her hair; it drags her down, reminding her that she is not yet a spirit, let alone an angel. She nods, inclining her head in a slight bow as the Pastor does the same; it is her only part in this ceremony that revolves completely around her.

The Pastor—her Pastor now, she supposes—lifts one final thing from the chest. It is dark, heavy in his hand; blue rimmed in white rimmed in blue, an almost garishly large stone affixed to a thin strip of black cloth. She steps forward to receive it, gulping at air; her heart seems to beat erratically, fluttering like birds wings, desperately eager to take off before the dark necklace chains it.

He wraps it around her neck, and Haruka smiles brightly as the choker’s weight rests at the hollow of her neck. It is an almost oppressive reminder, an almost comforting heaviness. It weighs her down, keeping her grounded, counteracting the lightness of her dress. Now, she thinks; now, she feels like a spirit.

She has seen it before, after all—there is a comforting weight in the absoluteness of death.

**_v. five_ **

After school, Monday, three-to-four: piano lessons. Before school, Wednesday, seven-to-eight: art club. After school, Thursday, five-to-seven: soccer practice.

After school, Friday, six-to-nine: Haruka clambers out of the backseat of her family’s SUV. She waves to her parents as the two drive off to their dinner reservation. She joins the thin stream of mediums trickling through the doors of her Church, takes out her notebook so she can doodle and tune out her Pastor’s sermon under the pretense of taking notes. She splits off into her small group after an hour, chats with her friends, texts Ayame through her latest pre-teen crisis as she communes with the dead. She draws silly faces in chalk channeling circles. She giggles when her teacher messes up a prayer. She falls asleep in the middle of meditation.

Afternoon, Saturday, two-to-five: speech and debate.

**_vi. six_ **

“Haruka, what are you doing?”

Haruka is getting a drink of water. Haruka is going to the bathroom. Haruka is not eavesdropping on her parents as they whisper frantically at each other from across the kitchen table at four o’clock in the morning.

The two glance over at her as she steps out from the shadows, the angles of their faces augmented in the dim glow from the hanging lightbulb. For a second, Haruka cannot see their expressions…then her father shifts, and everything becomes a little clearer. “It’s okay, sweetie. Come sit down with us—this involves you too, after all.”

“And you’re twelve now, aren’t you? Practically an adult.” Her mother’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes; her father looks equally exhausted, the lines in his face akin to the cracks in a worn cliff face. Haruka wonders if they are getting enough sleep.

“Yep. Practically an adult.” She shifts into the chair between them, glancing over. “…Is something wrong with the Church? That’s all I heard.”

The adults share a glance. It flies over her head—twelve is apparently not enough sometimes.

“…The Pastor is worried. More and more people have been leaving; you know how many people don’t believe in spirits and the supernatural world. He’s finding it harder to bring new people in, is all. We were wondering what we could do to help.”

Haruka frowns, glancing up at her dad. “But why do you have to worry about it? It’s not really our problem…”

“Nonsense. The Church is our home…it’s our family.” Haruka feels her mother’s fingers stroke her cheek gently; when she meets her eyes, the expression is comfortingly familiar. She relaxes. “They took you in and helped you when we had no idea what to do, didn’t they? And we know your powers are real. The Pastor even says they’re the strongest he’s ever seen—”

“—Although he also tells us you’d do better if you paid closer attention during his lessons.” Her father clucks her tongue, staring at her the same way he does when she brings home the occasional B on her math tests. “But hopefully that will change soon, right? After all, you’re almost thirteen.”

“…What happens when I’m thirteen?” Haruka pauses to yawn, swiping her father’s mug and taking a drink of his tea. Maybe she’s just tired, but she can’t think of anything aside from the new phone her aunt promised her for her birthday.

“Nothing.” There is that glance again, a glance of caution, something twelve year olds are not quite adult enough for. “You might take things more seriously, that’s all…and the Pastor just mentioned your powers might increase after your birthday.” For a second, Haruka thinks she sees the edges of her mother’s smile go brittle. “With your abilities, who knows? Maybe you’ll even be the answer to our problem.”

“That’s enough.” Her father shuts down the conversation quickly, catching her mother’s glare and returning it with renewed vigor. “We still have work tomorrow…and _you_ , sweetie, still have school.”

Haruka loves her father, but sometimes she wishes he wouldn’t call her such things. What sounded sweet to seven-year-old Haruka now sounds condescending; her father clearly does not share the same empathy as the Pastor. ‘Sweetie’ sounds soothing, sedative, overtly saccharine; it sounds like a secret her parents do not want twelve-year-old Haruka to hear.

**_vii. seven_ **

“I’m definitely not the first to say this, but happy thirteenth birthday.” Her Pastor’s voice is still smooth and sympathetic. His fingers are still long, thin in her hand as she clutches onto them. His eyes are still wide, vague, as dark and flickering as the hallway he leads them down.

“Thanks anyway.” Her teasing tone does little to lighten the mood; she steps closer to him, her toes brushing his heels as they walk. “I’ve never been in Church when it’s closed.”

“Are you scared?” He smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “Just stick close to me and you’ll be safe. The only evil ghosts here are the ones we want to be here.”

She barks a laugh, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she feels herself relax a little. The air is cold, of course, but she supposes that’s normal for a winter day with most of the power off in their little church. Her spine tingles, but that is also normal—darkness is still scary to her, despite (perhaps because of) the power she wields. Nothing is out of the ordinary—she clambered out of the backseat of her family’s SUV. Her parents kissed her goodbye and waved as they drove off to a dinner reservation. She is walking down the dark halls of her Church for what she cannot stop herself from hoping is her first surprise party.

The prickle at the back of her neck is anticipation as her Pastor stops in front of the door to her small group room. Anticipation as he turns the handle slowly, almost as if building the moment. Anticipation as his eyes turn to hers. They are still wide, as dark as the universe, as the first time he met her, but there is something about them now. There is a new focus, something she cannot identify, a dark hole in the center of that galaxy that she cannot see but she knows exists. There is something cleverly hidden in the vagueness.

The prickle at the back of her neck is fading fast as the door opens and a cloth is pressed to her mouth—fading as the first acrid whiff of _something_ weighs down her eyelids—fading as the Pastor’s voice s a y s—

**_iix. eight_ **

On the first day, Haruka awoke.

The air is dark; she can feel every dead particle dragging through her nose with every ragged breath, and the pressure of the atmosphere gives her the distinct impression she is crammed into a claustrophobic space. The room is dark; minutes drag by as she tries to identify whether her eyes are covered, whether they are closed, whether they are blinded, whether she will ever adjust to the light. Her limbs are dark; her legs have been resting in an odd position against cold dirt for hours, and her arms are numb, practically senseless. She realizes as she moves her fingers experimentally that they are chained at two separate points on some surface. There is no leeway; her hands brush against what must be an ice cold wall every time she tries to move them, a single chain link separating the cuff from the cement. She shifts her legs slowly until they regain feeling, spreading them out into the darkness and trying to alleviate the body weight that she has been putting on her wrists. A dark irony dawns upon her; she has been crucified in her own Church.

Because this is her Church, there is no mistake. The spirits she can sense are akin to old friends; she has called out to them during practice, nettled them in her free time, felt their eyes at her back when she walked through the imposing white doors of her Church only days ago. In the dream-like haze of her mind, she calls out to them, asks for their answers—after all, like her Pastor tells her time and time again, the dead know things the living can only dream of. They shy away from her, though; there is something different about their energy here, something that makes their distant silver glow harsher against the darkness of her backdrop.

There is also an unfamiliar sensation, something it takes her a second to identify—she again feels too light, too distant. There is a hazy weightlessness to her body that only amplifies the haze in her mind; she is thrown back to the day of her initiation, of feeling ethereal. It takes her a moment to realize her choker is gone, her hairpiece is gone.

The air is too dark; the room is too dark; her limbs are too dark. This is what sleep is like, she supposes; her mind is still tired, still struggling to claw itself into reality. This is a dream, she supposes; what else can it be?

It dawns on her in the darkness around her: this is what death is like, she supposes.

**_ix. nine_ **

On the seventh day, Haruka ate.

The air is too light; it is thin in her nose, on her sandpaper tongue, in her quivering lungs as her chest heaves. Despite how light it is, her ribs struggle against it; every breath is a monumental battle, and every battle is but one of her frantic, throbbing heartbeats in an eternal war. There is not enough air in the room, in the world, and what makes it into her body is an icy glacial weight pressing against her fevered heart; the dull pressure weighs her down. She feels like a spirit again, more than ever before.

The room is too light; it feels as if suspended in its own dimension, as if her body is frozen in space-time, in the vague nothingness of her Pastor’s eyes. It’s as if her arms are suspended not by chains, but by a force akin to gravity; as if her position is ruled by unique laws of physics that exist only in her standing space. She thinks of Hachiko running in her yard, of the distance from her desk to Ayame’s, of the length of the kitchen table between her parents. These spaces are too big, too wide—the world is the distance from chain link to chain link, the length of her legs outstretched, the size of her Pastor’s eyes.

Her limbs are too light; they are frozen, numb, white noise, the silence between her labored breaths. Her entire body feels distant, as if she is watching from somewhere else—as if she is a familiar ghost, one of the spirits she used to channel every day in Church, watching herself suffer and wordlessly ignoring her attempts to speak. She tries to move her hands, but they too are frozen and fragile as ice; they are still, they are the cold cement against her skin.

And then her limbs are too heavy, dropping with sudden weight, suddenly as heavy and rough as the slide of metal between labored breaths. She feels her arms drop a few centimeters; her trembling fingers thaw and begin to twitch upward as if jerked by marionette strings. Each miniscule movement is a battle as she jerks her fingers upward to touch chains around her wrist.

There are a few more chain links, now—the room, the world, the universe has grown by a few centimeters.

She shifts forward, stretching out her heavy legs; they catch on something solid, something that crumbles, a new sound. It is so unfamiliar, something beyond the frantic beating of her heart and the stuttering rhythm of her breath, that Haruka almost feels as if something entirely new has been created in the small room that is now her existence. As if she, little by little, is building up a new world from the darkness.

As if on cue, it begins to rain.

A single trickle on her forehead, a few drops of water—her limbs are too light, too heavy, as her head lolls back and her mouth falls open. It tastes dry on her tongue, barely recognizable, as if it isn’t water at all—but even as it pools in her stomach, sloshing icily in the emptiness inside her belly, the arctic pressure on her heart lifts a little. The white noise _just_ begins to fade; she curls her toes around the thing that crunches, pulling it close to her. Her hands move instinctively, chafing against the chains; she instead leans forward, ignoring the ache in her shoulders as she presses her face pathetically against whatever new discovery she has made. It is hard, scratchy against her face; she tentatively brings her mouth at whatever is in front of her. It is solid, rough; stale, she realizes. She bites at it pathetically, tearing and gulping it down, ripping it apart on her knees like a feral animal. It scratches her throat, scrubbing her insides raw and pale on the way down—angelic.

On the third day, God created the oceans and the seas—on the fifteenth day, God sent manna from the sky—on the seventh day, Haruka created water and bread from nothingness, molded the universe around her and kept herself barely on the brink of death.

When she finally sits back, she is Haruka again, her mind marginally clear for the first time in who knows how long. There is no sense of time in the dark room, no point by which to judge the passing of days—only the gnawing in her belly, the real threat of starvation and dehydration, gives hint about how long it might have been.

Her Church is doing this to her, that much is certain. Her Church has trapped her, is watching her—has her on a chain, has her eating off the floor, has her waiting for water to fall from the heavens, has her crucified on her knees as if in constant prayer. Her Church is the God of her little room, of her little existence. The Pastor has her world in his hands, has her universe in his eyes. 

There has to be a Savior coming—someone to deliver her, to lift her back into the light. Her parents will come, wondering why she disappeared after their dinner. Her friends will come, worried sick by her empty seat at school. The police will come, on the heels of some anonymous lead. Her captor will come—will spit at her, taunt her, tell her why she has been chosen to suffer. Someone will come.

Finally, someone does.

She has noticed something, as her sentence carries out. The spirits, try as they might to avoid her, are stronger; their presences are clearer, their silver glows more vibrant as the days—and the torture—carry on. She hears them whisper among themselves even from far away, their quiet words echoing louder in her ears even as her own consciousness fades in and out of existence. She feels a kinship with them, a sameness in the way her body sinks like a stone out of consciousness as it simultaneously feels light as a feather in the air. She feels more and more like a spirit.

Haruka builds a single conscious thought on the scraps scraping the bottom of her belly—she is closer to them because she is closer to death.

There is one spirit who remains curiously close to the room, who watches her with haunting eyes. Haruka catches him in corners, spies him on what she thinks might be the ceiling, thinks in her weaker moments that he is lurking just behind her back.

When she calls out to him soundlessly, eyes flickering to him, he reluctantly draws closer. He is a phantom, gaunt, skin and bones—his eyes are sunken, his skin flaking, his hair thin against his head. He is her age. Haruka feels more and more like a spirit—like _this_ spirit.

_They messed up with me._ His ghostly whisper echoes in her ears, curls up and makes itself comfortable in the coiled bone. _I was one of their first attempts._

Haruka’s eyes are falling closed—the only difference between the darkness around her and the darkness in her eyelids is that one lacks the shimmery silver forms of the spirits around her. Even then, the boy’s shining afterimage is etched into her eyes. _Be careful._ Already, he is fading, a pale echo, a halo seared into her vision. _It is coming._

**_x. ten_ **

On the thirteenth day, Haruka spoke.

The air is dead—stale, mildewed; like her food, it is hardly human to live off of. The room is dead—it is still, small, all compact Earth and frozen stone; a coffin. Her limbs are dead—her heart, her mind. Dead.

She still wanders in a dark haze between worlds, almost no distinction offered between the darkness in front of and behind her eyelids. Every now and then, her chain lengthens and she ekes out the will to stretch her limbs and reach for whatever food is then exposed to her. She counts the seconds go by even as she begins to forget how long a second is supposed to be. She moves her muscles, going through each one slowly, reminding herself she is still here. She reminds herself that she is Haruka Himura, that there is something beyond the black and silver of her world. She basks in the gnawing twist of her stomach, the feverish sprint of her heart, the cold sweat that perpetually rises to her brow.

And she listens.

As time goes on—as the line between waking and sleeping and living and dying grows smaller day by day—the spirits around her grow brighter. They begin to bend to her wishes, to the little crooks of her finger; eventually, new ones appear, entities she has never seen before. They are older, wiser; they are fainter, barely there, and seem more willing to talk. They bask in the attention, their dull auras pulsing in flashes of silver; having already forgotten themselves, they speak more generally. They wax poetic about the laws that govern the universe outside of Haruka’s box, expound their personalized absolute truths about high-minded concepts of ‘purpose,’ ‘justice,’ ‘survival.’ Old, wizened, ancient; wrinkled spirits the color of elephant skin, and elephants never forget. On the sixth day, God created man in his own image. On the thirteenth day, Haruka called up the dead in hers.

On the thirteenth day, It arrives.

It is different from all the other spirits. It has no form, no silvery shadow to follow. It is like the darkness in the Pastor’s eyes, the center of a black hole; its presence is heralded by a nothingness that isn’t present elsewhere. Even in the darkness of both consciousness and unconsciousness, It is there.

_I know the truth about why you are here,_ It says. _I know everything about worlds—about yours and everyone else’s. Would you like to know why you are here?_

Haruka does not speak. Her throat is raw, clean, angelic, dead. Her tongue and lips are swollen, cracked.

_You are not being punished. This is not karmic intervention. There is no such thing._ It dusts the cobwebs from Haruka’s mind, waving away such things as ‘truth’ and ‘justice,’ ‘fairness.’ _You are here because you are being used. Because your Church is using you. And you are staying here because people use each other, no matter what they tell you. Because saving you helps no one further their own goals. Because human nature demands that we only look out for ourselves, and the weak become stepping stones for the strong._

A flash of recognition comes to mind: mother, Ayame, father. Hachiko, curled up obediently at her heels. Her voice is a whistle of air as it escapes her mouth: ‘I don’t believe you.’

_Then don’t._ It does not care. It settles down, thickening and infecting the very air Haruka breathes in. On every inhale, It’s poisonous doctrine fills her lungs, seeps into her pores, curdles her bloodstream. _I will be here always, to remind you when you forget—every day of your imprisonment._

Haruka has forgotten how long a second lasts, what a minute is, how an hour passes. She has yet to forget that all three existed once, beyond the confines of her grave.

‘Do you know how long my imprisonment will be?’ When she asks, most spirits vanish from view. Some shake their heads. Some simply move on.

It cannot vanish, because it never existed in the first place—It is defined by absence, not presence. It cannot shake its head, because it does not believe in reality it all—It is beyond the trivialities of absolute truth. It does not move on, because there is nothing else to move on to—because in this box, It is governed by the laws of Haruka’s world.

On the sixth day, God finishes making the universe. On the thirteenth, Haruka learns that she has nothing left to build.

_Certainly._ It does not hesitate. _It is a life imprisonment. You will be here until the day you die._

**_xi. eleven_ **

On the twenty-first day, Haruka…

…

SpeaksEatsWakesListensStarvesSleeps

…

Water falls from the sky.

…

It is the air. It is the room. It is her—her nerves, her head, her limbs.

**_xii. twelve_ **

On the thirtieth day, Haruka awoke.

Her chains, which she has long since been able to hold in her hand, are comprised of twenty links each. She is splayed out on the floor when the door to her cell creaks open, when her universe is torn apart by the seams. As the acolytes pick her up, her hands grip the chains loosely; the grooves of a few are embedded in her cheek from where she lay against them. Her fingers are cold and stiff as metal, and are completely frozen to the links. It is as she herself as become a part of the chain, a part built into the room. When they try to remove the cuffs, they find it practically glued to the blood-stained skin of her wrists. In the end, they settle for cutting the chains at their weakest point—where they are attached to the wall.

The chains drag against the floor as she finally ascends into the world above; even as she rises to the heavens, she is still bound and weighted down. Her fingers count the links over and over again as she is carried from the room, through the completely dark hallways of the Church. One, two, three as she is stripped and bathed in the baptismal. Four, five, six as she is dressed again in something light, something washed clean—white, angelic, rearranged like a porcelain doll. Seven, eight, nine as her limbs are maneuvered, stretched, regain the twinging of pain that proves they are still intact in the first place. Ten, eleven, twelve as she is fed slowly, something nourishing, something that does not stretch her shrunken stomach. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen as her eyes are scorched by the light of a small, single candle, as she sees for the first time in her life. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen as the Pastor sits in front of her.

“…I know what you must be thinking, but all of our mediums go through this.” His voice oozes sympathy, empathy, understanding. “They unlock their hidden potential by drawing closer to the world of the spirits—the world of death. They gain a deeper understanding of the world and the universe, and in doing so begin to understand the righteousness of our goals.”

Haruka’s fingernails click against the nineteenth link.

“What we do is a beautiful thing, Haruka.” His eyes are as wide, vague, dark, as the universe. They are as unfocused, as black, as small as the world Haruka built in her room. “We want only to use our abilities—and the truth of the supernatural world—to let the realms of the dead and the living make peace with each other. What we did to you…I’m sorry, but it was necessary.”

Haruka’s fingers rub the twentieth link so hard that skin flakes off. Her eyes, as vague as the Pastor’s ever were, meet his with an unfocused recognition. When she opens her mouth, her voice is rough-raw-angelic.

“I agree.”

**_xiii. thirteen_ **

Haruka’s robes are dark, almost depressingly so; her skin, her stomach, her body has been cleaned raw from the inside out, a pale contrast. Her body seems disgustingly frail, light, barely-there, as if she could float free of the Earth, evaporate at any second. She can practically sense every individual rib, the way each one strains against her elastic skin and the angle at which they brush the heavy fabric. Dark robes, white body. Heavy robes, light body. She can feel the weight of her choker back at her throat, the bright silver hairpiece hanging heavily by her face. She is black and white again, a spirit.

She knows that her face is sallow and gaunt, her eyes are sunken, her lips are cracked and thin and her skin is pale. Her hair falls out in clumps, spirals down the shower drain each day in black masses as solid and dark as the air in the room. Her Pastor has assured her that these effects are only temporary, that with the Church observing her diet and measuring out her water and smothering her in medicinal creams and putting her on a rainbow of pills she will eventually return to normal. She doesn’t care. Death is not so pristine, after all—and her Church was the God of her life in that room. It seems natural they’d continue.

The Pastor is speaking, but his words are no match for her; they flow through her, sink past her pale skin and through her empty body and right back out again. Her eyes instead stare out at the modest crowd who have gathered to scrutinize the shell she has become. Worshippers who see right through her. Mediums she cannot quite understand. A mother, a father. There are no friends—she cannot trust them, not anymore. It is watching her also, a spot of almost familiar absence in the cacophonous explosion of presence that suddenly has infiltrated the darkness of Haruka’s world. It has been there even after her release, quieter since coming in contact with her wards but omnipresent. It is still staying by her side.

Unfamiliar hands take hers. A stinging feeling dances across the surface of her palms before growing exponentially, amplifying into a steady burn. Something is being injected into her hand, forced into her body; she can feel the numbness it leaves behind, dead skin. She stares ahead, eyes unseeing. It is her only part in this ceremony, the one that revolves completely around her.

It had told her, in the darkness of that room, that she would be there until the day she died. She is still there, she supposes, in the darkness of the room; the world is still her standing space, her life still the moment between breath and stuttering heartbeat. The prison is her mind—narrow, dark, vague and lifeless as her eyes.

It still speaks to her.

_I will be here always, to remind you when you forget—that your parents used you to find a purpose, that your Church used you to further theirs. I will be here always, to remind you when you forget—that we live without meaning, that our raison d’etre can be as lofty as changing the world and as meager as living to the next trickle of water. I will be here always, to remind you when you forget—even now, you wallow in the mud you will inevitably be buried in. I will be here always, to remind you when you forget—that your world is nothing but your standing space, that your universe begins and ends with you._

_I will be here. And so will you. We are bound in this room forever._

**_vii. seven_ **

Hope’s Peak Academy. Hope’s Peak, Academy. Hope (‘s Peak Academy).

She has no time for things like that. She has a job to do—spirits to channel, people to meet with, gatherings at Church that she cannot attend if she is too far away from the building she wanders into as if by accident every Saturday. If she is too far away from her room, from her world.

The letter sits on her desk, forgotten, for a week.

_They were using you. Your parents, your pastor, your church. Everyone uses each other. The only way to stay competitive in a world like this is to use other people too. Look out for yourself above all else._

When she finally claws her way into consciousness, the darkness of her bedroom is familiar; it is the same crushing pressure that filled her chest and lungs, the same darkness that crushed her in its grasp for thirty days and thirty nights. It lingers in the air, in the room, in her limbs. It is her world now, what she belongs to.

They say whoever attends Hope’s Peak will be set for life…

She wonders, in the darkness of her prison, whether it is high time she started thinking of herself.

**_vi. six_ **

She hears the whispering around her throughout the entire day. It follows her, a constant hiss, a malicious breeze that blows through the hallways of Hope’s Peak Academy.

_What is wrong with her…? What is_ wrong _with her…? What is wrong with_ her _…?_

‘Her’ sits, all bright-eyed and apple-cheeked and rapt attention, at the front of every classroom. ‘Her’ responds eagerly and enthusiastically to everything, even the teacher who calls her name and Ultimate Talent for attendance. ‘Her’ spends her classes doodling exuberantly, taking fevered notes in slanting handwriting, chattering incessantly to other people and the empty air. ‘Her’ is also given a wide berth—people avoid her, through classrooms and bell changes and lunch and break.

Haruka watches ‘her’ closely throughout the entire day.

She watches as ‘her’ goes through the motions, sprints through life with eyes that are too bright, too big, a smile that is so wide that its foundation could crumble at any moment. She watches as ‘her’ paints alone in the corner during breaks, greeting everyone and getting nothing in return. She watches ‘her’ consequently berate herself, her expression turning glassy, her twinkling eyes going as dark and vague and narrow as her Pastor’s universe.

More importantly, she watches the dark figure beside her; she watches it whisper in her ear, watches it snarl and frown and threaten, watches it curl around her like a snake and infect her with poisonous darkness. Haruka knows that darkness—it is the type that follows you, that traps you forever, that lingers in the air, room, limbs.

The next day, Haruka is unprepared for the tap on her shoulder.

“You’re Haruka Himura, right? The SHSL Medium!” The girl is bouncing on her toes—she is too excited, too happy, too much. “I’m Kozue Oka, and my friend Nanika wanted to say hi!”

**_v. five_ **

“You’ll love Yo-yo chan! He says the funniest things—like Nanika!”

Oh, how Haruka hopes ‘Yo-yo chan’ is not like Nanika. Two dark entities are enough on her plate.

As it turns out, ‘Yo-yo chan’ is not quite like Nanika. ‘Yo-yo chan’ is living and breathing—he is every bit of his adolescent years, an eye-rolling laidback internet junkie who takes things just a little too flippantly for Haruka’s liking. He is, from Haruka’s meticulous research on everyone she’s met in the school, what people would call a ‘delinquent’—he is a short fuse, a pervert, a drop out whose ‘Ultimate Luck’ lives down to the bad reputation that particular Super High School Level receives. He is the type Haruka hears whispers about in the hallway.

Then again, so is Kozue. And so is Haruka herself.

Haruka watches them closely from a distance—watches as Hideyoshi Wakabe gives Kozue Oka a lollipop, listens to her attentively, kisses her good night when she finally tires herself out.

More importantly, she watches Nanika shy away from his influence.

Haruka is always prepared, always watching, always on guard for the moment when someone will hurt her. She has studied Hideyoshi Wakabe in advance, dug up everything she possibly could about his life beforehand, pored through throwaway articles and hospital records and insurance information. Both Hope’s Peak and her Church are almost ridiculously well-informed.

It seems, now that the impossible has happened, that she is also on guard for the moment when someone will hurt Kozue Oka.

What she is not on guard for is the way Hideyoshi Wakabe sits alone near the back of the room, far away from his assigned seat. She is not on guard for the way he keeps his eyes fixed on the crumbling corner of his desk. She is not on guard for the way he eats alone at recess—occasionally he sits by tentative nominal friends, but Haruka still sees the way his glazed eyes occasionally fix themselves forlornly out the window at the bright springtime skies.

Haruka hasn’t talked to Ayame for three years. She has known Hideyoshi for far less.

It’s been a long time since she’s been sorry for another person’s tragedy, so Haruka is by no means prepared for the sudden urge to tell Hideyoshi Wakabe that his big sister must love him very much.

**_iv. four_ **

It starts relatively simply.

They are in Hideyoshi’s room, sprawled out on the various pillows as they quietly go about their daily businesses. Hideyoshi ‘does homework,’ which Haruka has long since accepted means ‘tinkering with the various odds and ends on his desk while his homework lies discarded to the side’; Kozue is painting, frowning at various intervals as she attempts to capture something perfectly on her canvas; Haruka is looking over her books, wondering whether she has yet done enough practice to attempt an exorcism on an old, trauma-bound spirit. She hopes, in the end, that it will not be necessary. Kozue is becoming more and more lucid in their time together, and exorcisms are always a tricky business. Hideyoshi, too, seems to be coming together a little bit more; in a way, Haruka would like to think that all three are beginning to make peace with their demons together.

It dawns on her then, quietly and simply, as the crinkle of bristles in paint melts into the scratch of pen on paper melts into the swish of flipping paper—she cannot imagine herself without ‘together,’ cannot imagine her life without either of them anymore.

It is nothing noteworthy, it is nothing new—it is a quiet realization, like looking at the winter sky and realizing it has always been the same particular shade as Hachiko’s fur. For Haruka, it is like blinking in the darkness and realizing her chains were never actually attached to the wall.

The air is clear; it is the smell of water and paint and old sweets. The room is clear; it is captured in time on Kozue’s canvas, a physical reminder that her world has expanded to the size of a cluttered dorm room. Her limbs are clear; they are the weight of two hands, one in each of hers.

**_iii. three_ **

_They’re using you to feel less lonely. You’re using them to prove me wrong._ _That is how people are. That is a truth of the universe, an absolute fact about humanity that you can never outrun. Your life is what you make of it, but it is defined by its limitations—you are what you are, and that is impossible for anyone to overcome._

When she finally screams her way into consciousness, the darkness of her bedroom is familiar; it is the same oppressive darkness that filled her chest and lungs, the same darkness that crushed her in its grasp for thirty days and thirty nights. It lingers in the air, in the room, in her limbs. _It is a life imprisonment. You will be here until the day you die._

She wonders, in the darkness of her prison, whether she has enough of herself left to share between three people.

**_ii. two_ **

The world is ending.

The world is crashing, burning, falling and crumbling; it is shaking from the impact, quaking in fear as the boom and blast of destruction fills the atmosphere with its acrid metallic smell. The very air reeks of gasoline, of ash and fire and _despair_.

This is not how Haruka expected the world to end; in her mind, the world would end with in an almost imperceptible exhale, a resigned defeat. For her the apocalypse is the slide of metal against skin, the ceaseless and noiseless turn of the sun that goes on regardless of the horrors befalling mankind. It is the silent surrender of knowing that there is nothing left to work for; it is the quiet clink of chains against the floor.

For her, the world ended a long time ago.

‘You could join the Future Foundation.’

Why turn down her own safety to gamble her life on a high minded ideal? Why become a martyr when she could outlive it all, emerge from the rubble alone and continue on? Why throw herself into working for a future that she doesn’t believe in, fighting for the human race she can no longer trust?

As it turns out, there is not enough of her left to share between three people.

‘…I’ll join,’ she responds almost robotically, in a voice that is not entirely her own. Her eyes are fixed on two people—an unattainable hope, a future that relies on beating what is impossible to overcome.

**_i. one_ **

She is going back—back to a world that is the size of her room, a universe in her almost-forgotten Pastor’s eyes, an existence that has not yet been shared between three people.

There is an uncertainty to it, she supposes—a possibility that she will emerge with a new fear, a glimpse at a darker version of what might have been. It taunts her about it, in the occasional dream; eagerly awaiting the moment her eyes slide shut, promising that she will once again learn what it means to have a world limited to the standing space around you. She should be afraid, she supposes—afraid of the darkness behind her eyelids that she will once again have to live in.

Oddly enough, she is not. She is comfortable in herself, in the size of her world; in the people around her, both the ones she loves and tolerates.

Her eyes are still fixed in the same place they always are now—on two people, who have somehow broken through the darkness. She watches them as they enter the room, the size of her old backyard. Watches as they crawl into the padded chambers, each reminiscent of a coffin, each the size of one person, a single world. She watches them lie down on either side of her, eyes flickering fast between them until the lid of her coffin closes and she is alone in the small confined space. Haruka’s arms are stiff by her sides, but when she spreads her fingers out and the lights in her chamber flicker on, there is heat beneath her fingertips that is reminiscent of the Earth.

* * *

 Seven is an odd number, a prime number; the luckiest number. There are seven continents, seas, days in every week, notes in a musical scale…they say that there are seven pillars that make up human wisdom; that there are seven skies in our world; that there are seven worlds in our universe. That there are seven deadly sins, but also seven colors in God’s promise to mankind.

They say our world will end with seven seals, then seven trumpets, then seven plagues…

…But they also say that God created the universe, our world, and everything in it in seven days.

It takes Haruka Himura seven steps to rebuild her faith in humanity.


End file.
